


Lipstick and Stilettos

by leiascully



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Community: femslash07, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-03-12
Updated: 2007-03-12
Packaged: 2017-10-03 07:27:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leiascully/pseuds/leiascully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>All things considered, and taking into account that I've never done this with a girl (a woman!) before, though I'm not the ingénue Sam thinks I am</i>, goes the ramble in Ainsley's mind, but she swallows all of it and manages to say, "Yeah. Good."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lipstick and Stilettos

**Author's Note:**

  * For [llyfrgell (coloredlights)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coloredlights/gifts).



> Timeline: S3  
> **A/N:** Thanks to [**queenzulu**](http://queenzulu.livejournal.com/) for the beta and the question "Is Sam a man or a woman?" Tough call, some days. Written for [**femslash07**](http://community.livejournal.com/femslash07/)  
> Disclaimer: _The West Wing_ and all related characters are property of Aaron Sorkin, Thomas Schlamme, and NBC. No profit is made from this work and no infringement is intended.

"The thing is," Ainsley insists (and she wasn't watching the bartender put the splash of crème de cacao in this Pink Squirrel, so maybe it was more of a splosh, and that's why she's tingling), "the thing is that there are a lot of different kinds of feminism, and not everyone realizes that." She is not quite sure why she is at this party, but C.J. and Donna are around somewhere; it is some women's thing and part of her misses having Sam to spar with. There were hors d'oeuvres, but they are long gone, and in the absence of nibbles and wit, she has been driven to drink, because she is not the teetotaler Sam thinks she is. "Feminism may be, in the minds of the everyman, still the collective of bra-burners and lesbians, but this point of view neglects to credit the flexibility and the evolution of the philosophy that has been engineered by wives and mothers and single women everywhere, such women as belong to not only your party, but my own."

After that, she put her fingers to her lips in shock and takes a soothing gulp of her girly, girly, (womanly? _Think like a feminist, Ainsley_) girly drink (no way around it - it was pink and had a tiny umbrella). "I didn't mean to say that you're a bra burner or a lesbian. I mean, it's pretty clear that you wear a bra, and as for the other thing, I try not to keep my ear to the ground or the door or whatever it is. The grapevine, I believe, is the charming colloquialism. I mean, I do try to abstain from listening to gossip, but this is DC and you always hear things although you try not to credit them. And plus you had that thing with Josh Lyman, and though I must say that I occasionally find that he has some qualities that could be described as effeminate, he's not as girly as Sam or anything."

Another large swallow of Pink Squirrel that sets her throat burning as a smile plays around Amy Gardner's perfect red lips. Amy swings her hair behind her shoulders and sips at her dirty martini. "No offense taken. I know what you mean about Joshua." Ainsley looks at her enviously: curves, stilettos, strapless dress that doesn't seem to need adjustment, perched on the edge of her barstool with cool composure. Ainsley has her girl's drink and her elbows on the bar. Amy looks like some whiskey-voiced singer with Mafia connections is going to sweep her off in an Italian sports car at any moment, Amy with her grownup's drink and her husky voice and the speech she gave tonight that never once veered into iambic pentameter (where did she get all that fire? It doesn't have the flavor of Gilbert and Sullivan, some kind of passion instead of duty, and Ainsley wants the secret of it).

"Lipstick feminism," says Ainsley into her drink. "Stiletto feminism, with the high heels and the low necklines and the makeup and the perfume and the whole trousseau, you know? We work in a world crowded with and in fact almost exclusively populated by men who have no compunctions about using any advantage given to them. So why shouldn't we hold our ground? There are times when a little décolletage can be a tool."

"I would have to agree," says Amy, languid, one bare calf crossed over the other. Her foot in its sexy shoe swings. Ainsley watches it, hypnotized: Amy's toenails are red and her shoes are black and the fine skin over the delicate bones is white as white.

\+ + + +

Ainsley is not actually sure how she got to Amy's place. There was a taxi, and the running train of thought that she shouldn't be in a taxi with Amy, that the rumor mill or the grapevine or whatever you wanted to call the (insidious, efficient, astounding) information-gathering network of D.C. already thought she was a lesbian, or that she was sleeping with Sam, but this could be perfectly innocent, just two women splitting a fare. So she sat on the cracked leather seats and watched Amy lounge and talk about whatever it is she was talking about in that mesmerizing voice. She is still hypnotized by the flutter of Amy's pale fingers, and the tingle from the alcohol has spread through her body, though it has lasted longer than any intoxication gained from one drink with only a splash (or a splosh, it could have been a splosh, but that doesn't account for all of this) has a right to, and maybe it's become something else. She'd call it a yearning or a longing (but that's not right, is it? She doesn't even feel this way about Sam, and Sam is handsome and exciting and charming and sensible for a Democrat) but she can't really put it into words, given that extemporaneous words have never quite been her strong suit. She's good at debate, given a few minutes to prepare, she's good at logic, but she's not good at figures of speech, and she's not good at narrowing down what she thinks about the easy gesture of Amy's hands or the resilient plush comfort of Amy's couch.

Amy has brown eyes, she notices (and if she were Sam, she'd be able to come up with synonyms and metaphors and all of that, but she's not, and she's verging into iambic pentameter just looking at Amy's eyes, and she's been staring too long, but there are funny lights in them) and she thinks Amy's been looking at her for a good couple of minutes now, but she can't really figure out why. She's on Amy's couch, talking politics, talking strategies, talking feminism, and it's nice to feel like she belongs. Four shoes on the floor, jumbled together, and Ainsley has her feet tucked under her while Amy lounges with one knee hooked over the other and her toes brushing the carpet. There's something behind the conversation, some thread of energy and connection that Ainsley can only follow when she doesn't think too hard, and it's more important and more compelling than the words, and Ainsley wants to follow it (because you ought to see these things out to the end, and because she wants to riddle this out more than she's wanted anything in a long time, almost as much as she wanted to work at the White House). And then Amy reaches out that white hand and touches Ainsley's bare shoulder where the dress isn't and Ainsley's whole mind goes blank and still for the first time in a long time.

And then Amy is leaning in, closer and closer, and Ainsley isn't moving at all, but the world is tipping. All she can see is Amy's pretty face and Amy's perfect swishy hair and she'd ask what shampoo Amy uses to create that amazing drift of fragrance, but then Amy's mouth is against hers.

Ainsley for a long moment has no idea what her lips are doing. Amy's lips are talented, of course, confident and supple and knowing. Amy always knows exactly what she's doing, Ainsley suspects, because that kind of poise doesn't come from indecision. Amy's mouth is asking the kind of rhetorical question where the answer is apparent, because Ainsley is kissing her back suddenly, or realizing suddenly that she's kissing her back anyway. And it's good. It's better than Ainsley would have expected if she'd thought about it. The corner of Amy's mouth tastes like olives and Ainsley touches her tongue to the spot and Amy sighs, which is something a man's never done when Ainsley kissed him.

So Ainsley reaches out (because she needs to somehow, she needs to reassure herself of the rest of Amy beyond her hungry mouth) and touches the first thing her fingers reach, which is the ridge of Amy's collarbone, and Amy sighs again, and the tingle that isn't alcohol anymore is increasing. Ainsley traces the curve and the hollow and Amy's skin is so smooth. Ainsley makes a mental note to ask her what kind of exfoliating product she uses and then Amy's hand is on Ainsley's thigh under her skirt and it's like an electric shock. It's a better jolt than a vote surge on election day. It's hotter than a debate on the Second Amendment and Ainsley gasps.

"All right?" Amy murmurs.

_All things considered, and taking into account that I've never done this with a girl (a woman!) before, though I'm not the ingénue Sam thinks I am_, goes the ramble in Ainsley's mind, but she swallows all of it and manages to say, "Yeah. Good." And Amy keeps kissing her, and Ainsley is breathing in the fumes from the martini and the scent of Amy's perfume and the heat of Amy's breath, and it's all gone to her head and she loves it. She feels a little wild. Her hair is slipping out of the ponytail as Amy's fingers slide up the back of her head and she likes it. Her own hand slides down from Amy's collarbone to Amy's breast, and Amy arches into the touch without breaking the kiss, and it's fascinating to feel the bud of her nipple firming under Ainsley's fingertips, just the way Ainsley's nipples are tightening. Amy is leaning closer and closer and Ainsley leans back and pulls Amy down on top of her. The weight of her is suprising, not that she's heavy, just solid in a way that Ainsley didn't really expect. Slim but solid, and warm and alive, and her breasts press against Ainsley's with Ainsley's hand between them, and her thigh is between Ainsley's, rubbing gently through the taut fabric, and Ainsley's hips and shoulders are pushing up without any conscious effort, pushing against Amy's, and Amy's teeth nip at Ainsley's lips and Ainsley bites back, her free hand splayed over the curve of Amy's ass, pulling her closer.

"Let's get this off," Amy says into Ainsley's mouth, pulling at Ainsley's zipper, and Ainsley feels a surge of affection for the inclusiveness of the statement. "Let's" instead of just "get this off". She arches her back so that Amy can slide the zipper down and then sits up slightly so that she and Amy can fumble the dress off, palms all over newly exposed skin, and she's working at Amy's zipper at the same time so that finally the creamy tops of Amy's breasts are bare above the black satin of the bra. Ainsley undoes the clasp one-handed at the same time that she's lifting Amy's breasts out of the bra, impatient. Amy's legs are around Ainsley's waist; they're really sitting up now, Ainsley with one leg on the floor and Amy's mouth on her shoulder, trailing kisses from neck to arm. Ainsley hesitates for a moment: kissing is one thing, kissing can be talked away, but this touching, if she does it, will be unabashedly, undeniably, and incontrovertibly sexual.

And then she leans forward and takes Amy's breast into her mouth. She runs her tongue along the pink lines in Amy's skin where the bra was. She tastes a little salt, and the bitter lingering traces of perfume. Amy moans and manages not to sound theatrical, which is surprising to Ainsley, who has always been faintly embarrassed by her own whimpers and gasps, always feeling like she's putting on a show.

The most startling thing is how turned on Ainsley is by the feel of Amy's skin under her tongue, the feel of Amy's nipple between her teeth (and Ainsley is very careful with her teeth on the puckered skin, but she can't resist gently scraping to hear Amy's quick intake of breath). All the fine hairs on Ainsley's arms are standing up and she's breathing faster, close to moaning herself. Her dress is down around her waist, the skirt rucked up. Her hair is down too, the elastic lost in the couch cushions, the feathery ends brushing her shoulder blades so that it tickles. One of Amy's hands is cupped under her breast and the other (oh, her brain says, and her mouth forms it silently as she licks at the underside of Amy's breast, the heavy yielding curve) slips farther up Ainsley's skirt until Amy's fingertips with their manicured nails are tracing lines along the lace of Ainsley's panties. Ainsley lets Amy's breast slide out of her mouth, her head tipping back. Amy kisses her throat and her fingers hook underneath the lace, caressing the length of Ainsley's folds, unerringly seeking out clitoris and entrance, rubbing circles, the glide of Amy's fingertips telling Ainsley how slick she is (and she is completely, humiliatingly, drenchingly turned on, and the fact that she's so aroused only makes her hotter).

"Still okay?" says Amy with her lips against the base of Ainsley's throat, and Ainsley can only hum an affirmative. She tries to speak, can only say "Please", but Amy seems to appreciate it, and three of those perfect fingers slide into Ainsley (and she didn't realize earlier why Amy's nails were manicured so short, but she's grateful for it now) as Amy's thumb is still making circles around Ainsley's clit and Amy reaches somehow and Ainsley's vision blurs with the shock of the pleasure. She moans, un-selfconscious for once, turning her face into the cushions, needing some contact for her hungry mouth, and Amy pushes her gently back until they're stretched out again, her fingers thrusting into Ainsley and her red mouth (even with all the lipstick kissed off and the narrowing of Ainsley's eyes against the light that's so bright, Amy's mouth is red) pressed to Ainsley's. And there are breasts against Ainsley's breasts (unfamiliar feeling but so comfortable, and Ainsley's breasts spilling out of her bra) and a woman's hips against Ainsley's (making up for any pressure that might be lacking, and Amy's hand is defter than any cock) and they're both half in and half out of their dresses and the fabric bunching between their skin is driving her crazy (in a good way, she thinks, as far as she can think, which is mostly not).

Ainsley leans into the kiss as far as she can, wriggling to get more of her skin against Amy's, and Amy's free hand comes up to squeeze Ainsley's breasts. Ainsley's mouth is desperate, pulling at Amy's, and Amy swallows Ainsley's gasps and moans and asks for more with fingers and tongue and the friction of skin. The arch of her foot rubs up and down Ainsley's calf, and Ainsley has two fingers in Amy's mouth and the other hand cupping Amy's ass, reaching to find the curls and the moisture, trying to give back as she receives, wanting to taste Amy's groans. But Amy slides suddenly down Ainsley's body, trailing wet kisses down chest and stomach, pulling Ainsley's nipple sharply into her mouth for a moment and leaving it cold and so hard that it's almost painful, and Ainsley's hips jerk until Amy holds her down and kisses the inside of her thigh and coaxes the lace panties down until Ainsley lifts her leg and shakes free. Then Amy's tongue flickers out and oh God, the heat of her mouth on Ainsley's clit and the texture of her tongue, and her fingers are still fishing, still finding that spot, and Ainsley reaches down to hold Amy's breast and presses her face hard into the cushion, her wrist against her open mouth, and she's going to leave a hickey on her own skin, but she has to do something.

She comes so hard she sees stars, and the bright flare of light in the room goes staticky and she almost blacks out. When she comes to, her teeth are still in her wrist, she's got a cramp in her calf, her toes are curled until they ache, and Amy is kissing her belly just below her navel. She smiles up at Ainsley, predatory but sweet.

"I..." says Ainsley, limp, still feeling the fluttering aftershocks as Amy draws her wet fingers out and along Ainsley's thigh. There is a perfect circle of red marks on her own wrist where her mouth was.

"Shhhh," says Amy and lines her body up with Ainsley's, and Ainsley trembles, wanting more, wanting to coax the same kind of response from Amy. She wants to see the line of Amy's pretty throat tighten with desire. She wants to see the flush spread up Amy's chest (her own is blotchy and pink now, and Amy strokes her breast with fingers just as pink from heat and moisture). She wants to run away, to salvage her dignity and recompose herself and not be laid bare like this, and she wants to stay all night and shower with Amy in the morning, hot water over steaming skin as she rubs soap into Amy's curves. But Amy rolls on top of her again and kisses her, and there's the peace, the stillness of mind, and the tang that must be her own flavor. Amy's weight is a reassurance, and her brown eyes, so close, are warm.

"I'm not sure I know how to do that," Ainsley says, biting her lip.

"I hear you're a quick study," Amy drawls. "Plenty of time to learn."

And she smiles again, and Ainsley smiles back.


End file.
